


patchwork scars

by Sixteenthdays



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Amnesia, Dream Team SMP Spoilers, Gen, Ghostbur, Post-Exile Arc on Dream SMP, overuse of clothes and sewing as metaphor, sleepy bois inc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28566612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixteenthdays/pseuds/Sixteenthdays
Summary: “Tommy?”Wil-Ghostbur asked a little distractedly, picking absentmindedly at the threads of his sweater. “Do you know how to sew?”Tommy blinked, glancing over at him. “Do I- what? No, I don’t- why? Why would I… why do you ask?”“Oh, it’s nothing!” Ghostbur hastened to tell him, smiling. “Just this big rip in my sweater… it shows up sometimes."
Comments: 12
Kudos: 148





	1. Chapter 1

“Tommy?” ~~Wil-~~ Ghostbur asked a little distractedly, picking absentmindedly at the threads of his sweater. “Do you know how to sew?” 

Tommy blinked, glancing over at him. “Do I- what? No, I don’t- why? Why would I… why do you ask?”

“Oh, it’s nothing!” Ghostbur hastened to tell him, smiling. “Just this big rip in my sweater… it shows up sometimes. I thought maybe I could stitch it up.” An idea occurred to him, and he brightened. “Oh, do you think I could use blue thread? We have plenty of blue wool, and you get thread from wool, don’t you…” 

“Huh,” Tommy said, frowning for a moment. “You could ask Phil. That sounds like something he’d know, he’s like… an adult, sewing is adult knowledge, isn’t it. What happened, even, did you catch on a thorn bush or something?” 

“Oh, no, it’s from when Dad stabbed me,” Ghostbur told him. “Some days it shows up and some days it doesn’t. Can never really remember why...” 

He trailed off, frowning slightly. His hands tightened in the knitted fabric of his sweater, fingers digging into the frayed and ragged edges of the tear. He blinked and for a moment there was blood, drying into the yarn, rusty brownish and staining his whole front, and then it was gone again. 

…Tommy was saying something. 

Wilbur blinked up at him. “Sorry, what?” 

“Just now,” Tommy repeated, something a little jagged in his voice that ~~Wil-~~ _Ghostbur_ couldn’t place. “You said that happened when- when Phil, when he stabbed you. You- um.” He paused for a moment, chewed furiously on his lower lip. “I didn’t realize you knew about that.” 

“Oh! Yes, I do,” Ghostbur assured him. Phil had been surprised to learn he remembered that too, hadn’t he? He wondered why that was. “I don’t remember the events leading up to it at all? I guess nobody wants to tell me. But I remember the end very clearly.” 

“But,” Tommy said, went quiet for a moment, then said, “But I thought… you said you only remembered happy things.” 

Ghostbur tipped his head to one side, slightly confused. “I do.” 

Tommy didn’t say anything to that. He looked stricken, fists balling up at his sides, staring at Ghostbur with a broken sort of look he couldn’t fully parse. 

Ghostbur frowned, worried. “Tommy, are you alright? Have I- if I upset you, I didn’t mean to.” 

“No- no, you…” Tommy scowled, jerking his head away and furiously scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Ugh. God. You’re- you’re such an _asshole_ , you know? You…” 

“…I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t- it’s not- well, I mean, it _is_ your fault, but it’s- never mind.” Tommy pressed his lips together tightly, shook his head once, hard. “Don’t- don’t worry about it.”

“…Alright,” Ghostbur said after an uncomfortable beat of silence, because Tommy _was_ upset, that much was obvious, and even if he didn’t know exactly what about, he didn’t want to make it any worse. (He had an ugly, creeping sort of suspicion that he’d already done more than his share of that.)

Quiet fell, as Tommy turned back to whatever he was making on the crafting table without another word, face still a little pinched like he was maybe trying not to cry. Ghostbur’s attention drifted back to the tear in his sweater. Was it a little wider than it had been earlier? He couldn’t tell. Some of the threads were starting to come unraveled.

“It is funny, though,” he said absently, more to himself than anything. 

Tommy glanced up at him. “What?”

“I wasn’t wearing this sweater when I died, was I?” Wilbur asked aloud, even though he already knew the answer. “I remember. I was wearing…” 

He blinked, and instead of yellow knit he was rubbing an off-white t-shirt between his fingers, torn in just the same place his sweater had been. Over it, he was wearing a brown trench coat, well-loved, torn and burned in places at the hem. He blinked again and he was bleeding, red dripping out of the rip and seeping into the fabric.

And it _hurt_.

He dug a hand into his hair, squeezed his eyes shut. The inside of his skull was aching, lights flashing behind his eyes like fireworks. Explosions? He wasn’t sure but it was loud and tangled and _hurt hurt hurt,_ and he could hear a song and it should have been lovely but instead it hurt worse than _anything_ -

“-Wil? Wil! _Wil!_ ” 

Ghostbur blinked. 

Everything was okay again. 

“Ah! Sorry, Tommy, what were we talking about?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck a little self-consciously. “I forgot.” 

Tommy stared at him, something complicated on his face, for just long enough that Ghostbur started to wonder if something bad had happened.

“…We were just talking about the rip in your sweater, Will,” Tommy said eventually. He stood, buckling his sword to his belt and reaching for his coat, hanging by the door. “I’ll… um. I need to- I’m gonna go find Phil, and, um. Ask if he can stitch it up for you.” 

Ghostbur smiled. “Thank you, Tommy!” he said brightly. 

“Yeah,” Tommy said, one hand on the doorknob. He squeezed his eyes shut tight for just a moment, then said, “Yeah, no… no problem. I’ll be back soon.” 

And then he was gone, the door slamming just a little too hard behind him, and Ghostbur stared at it and wondered what he’d done wrong. 


	2. Chapter 2

Wilbur’s coat was too big on Tommy. 

That was the first thing Phil thought when he tilted his head back and shaded his eyes to squint up at where Tommy was climbing down the hillside towards him. Tommy wasn’t a short kid, but the old brown trench coat was still too long on him, and the ragged hem dragged in the dirt and snow. 

He knew Tommy had better clothes- Techno’d complained about him looting his closets enough times (but, Phil had noticed, never made a move to stop him doing so). Warmer clothes, too, things made for the cold. But he kept wearing Wilbur’s tattered old coat, all the same. 

Tommy waved with his free hand, shouted down a greeting before jumping the rest of the way to the ground, and Phil grinned and waved back. 

It was good to see Tommy, even if he was still skinnier than he should be, the shadows under his eyes not yet faded. Good to see him smiling. 

“Phil!” Tommy skidded to a halt at his side, and Phil’s eyes went to the coat again, to the faded dark spots of dried blood that still stained it, before they went to his face. “What’s good?” 

“Ah, not much,” Phil said, giving him a quick once-over look to check he wasn’t hurt just out of habit. “Just scouting out some places for backup bases, you know. What’s wrong?” 

Tommy twitched a little, raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. “Who said something’s wrong? Maybe, you know, maybe I just wanted to check in, ask some questions-“ 

“Uh-huh.” Phil nodded, folded his arms against an uncomfortable moment of deja vu. “What’s wrong?” 

Tommy awkwardly stalled for a moment longer, then sighed, shoving his hands into the pockets of the coat. “I was talking to Wilbur,” he started. “And you know, sometimes he says things that are- ugh. He doesn’t- he doesn’t mean to be cruel? I _know_ he doesn’t. But…” 

“But sometimes he is anyways,” Phil finished, nodding. “Yeah, I know what you mean. What’d he say?” 

Tommy pressed his lips together into a flat line for a moment, looking upset, then blurted all at once: “He said he remembered dying.” 

Those words sat in the air between them for a moment, heavy and immovable, and whatever comfort Phil had been planning to offer was all at once impossible to voice.

“And- if he only remembers good things,” Tommy continued after a moment, as though he needed to get the whole thought out before it choked him even though neither of them really needed the implications spelled out. “Then he must’ve been happy when he died, right? He- he must’ve thought that was a good thing.” 

He scowled at the ground for a moment. “I knew, I mean, I’m not stupid, I _knew_ he was losing it, right, I was _there_ the whole time. It was me and him, ever since the election. I mean… I thought I knew better than anybody. But I didn’t realize- I never knew he was _that_ far gone. I never knew…” 

He trailed off, looking upset and lost and so very sixteen, and Phil could finally find words, because there were things that needed to be said before Tommy could follow that train of thought any further. 

“It’s not your fault, Tommy,” he said, because that was the most important thing right at the moment. “It’s not- Tommy, look at me,” he said, and Tommy did. “It’s _not your fault_. I don’t-“ and the words caught in his throat for a moment- “I don’t think anybody really knew how far gone he was, and I don’t think anybody could’ve guessed what he would do, either. And if anyone failed, it was me, not you. Alright?” 

Tommy looked like he wants to argue for a moment, but it passed quickly- instead he bit his lip, nodded once, gaze fixed on the ground, and Phil took that as license to hug him. Tommy didn’t even make a token attempt at wriggling free, which was how Phil knew he was truly upset.

He wondered if Tommy had even really had a chance to grieve, with all that’d happened. He couldn’t even begin to guess at the mess of emotions that must have been tangled up inside his head. 

(Sometimes, he wondered if Wil had any idea just how much wreckage he was leaving in his wake.) 

Tommy stepped back eventually, and cleared his throat, looking away. “Um. Thanks.”

Phil smiled, just a little. “Anytime.” He meant it, too. “Hey, wasn’t there something else you wanted to ask me about?” 

“What?” Tommy looked blank for a moment, before realization visibly lit in his eyes. “Oh, right! I was going to ask, do you know how to sew?” 

Phil raised his eyebrows a little at the non-sequitur. “Sure. Why?” 

“Well, the reason the- um, the conversation, the one I was telling you about, the reason it got started, I guess, was because Wilbur’s got a big rip in that yellow sweater he always wears. He says it’s from- uh, you know. He asked me if I knew how to sew, y’know, to patch it, and I said no, but you might, so…” 

“Huh. Well, I guess I can try,” Phil said. “I’m not sure exactly how, uh, _real_ that is? But I can try. And- hey, while I’m at it, that old coat’s taken a real beating, too. Want me to try and patch that up for you, too?” 

“That old- oh.” Tommy glanced down at the coat, singed sleeves and ragged hem and missing buttons, like he was registering the extent of the damage for the first time. “Oh, um- yeah. That would be- _great_ , actually. Yeah, it’s kinda wrecked, isn’t it?”

Phil chuckled. “Just a bit. Still salvageable, though, I think. Could probably take up the hem and sleeves a bit to make it fit you better, too, how’s that sound?” 

Tommy grinned, and it was so good to see. “Sounds fantastic.” 

**Author's Note:**

> originally i just wrote this for some discord friends and it was never going to see the light of day, but cringe is dead and found family dynamics are good and i can do what i want. thank you for reading!


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